


the lines that we'll draw

by fakelight



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-05-05 14:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakelight/pseuds/fakelight
Summary: Begin and don't stop; or, short fics from Tumblr.





	1. true teen-age tales of second base infidelity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stoprobbers: [This](https://www.instagram.com/p/BfY0xhIl6AH/?taken-by=mattadrianart) is a fucking teenz fic prompt in and of itself

Jonathan knows this is a conversation that would need to be had eventually.

He just thought he could try and put it off, maybe. Until Monday after school, or maybe until they were 30 and he’d been married to Nancy for a few years, at some kind of reunion, because they’ve done this for two Novembers in a row, now, maybe in 15 or so they’ll get the gang back together and take out a few more monsters.

He didn’t think it would come standing in his kitchen, with a passed-out Billy Hargrove on the floor, his brother recovering from a monster possession in the other room and Eleven, sitting at his kitchen table like she hadn’t died, or disappeared, or Upside Down-ed, or whatever.

There’s a dead demodog in his refrigerator and the conversation is, apparently, happening now.

“So,” Steve says, drawing the  _o_  out until it’s too low for him to hear. His face looks terrible, worse than last year.

Jonathan fidgets under his gaze, keeping his eyes on the dead  _thing_  that’s wedged into the fridge. He’d just wanted a drink of water.

He wonders if the lab will come clean it up this time, wonders why it’s  _his_  house they always seem to congregate at. He wonders if Nancy could come and rescue him, postpone the conversation for at least ten minutes. Or days. Months.

“I’m not  _mad_ ,” Steve says, eventually.

Jonathan lifts his chin, eyeing Steve sideways.

“Really. I mean, it’s still a break-up if you don’t say the words, right? _We are broken up_.”

Jonathan blinks, his eyes back on the monster.

“I told her she was bullshit,” Steve admits, saying it almost into his shoulder. “I mean, that’s basically the same thing.”

Jonathan manages to restrain himself from an emphatic nod, turning it into a bob of the head that could be agreement, or could just be a reaction to the smell that’s beginning to emanate from the monster, despite the chill.

“You know, I used to call you her other boyfriend. I didn’t think it would actually end up being true—no offense, man.”

Jonathan presses his lips together.

“I mean, even after last year, you guys always had that monster stuff before I showed up in common, and you know, I saw her . . . when Will was on the couch, she was . . . anyway, I just wanted to say, we’re cool.”

Jonathan looks at him, warily.

“I mean, it’s not like she  _cheated_  on me with you, or anything, right? We broke up.”

Jonathan purses his lips, shrugging.

“And you guys weren’t gone that long, it’s not like you even had the time,” Steve states, but there’s a leading edge to his statement that turns it into what could be a question.

Jonathan thinks,  _Save me_ , over and over in his head, wondering if Eleven can hear him. He glances back, but she’s too busy staring at Mike. And Steve is staring at him.

“What are you guys talking about?” Nancy asks, appearing suddenly at his side.

He could kiss her.

“Jonathan was just telling me about what you guys got up to.”

“He was?” Nancy asks.

Jonathan looks at her, his eyes wide, shaking his head imperceptibly.

“He told you about Murray?”

He closes his eyes.

“Ah, we hadn’t gotten quite that far. Murray, that’s—that’s the reporter guy.”

“Yeah,” Nancy says, “we got evidence, from the lab, of what they were doing. He wrote it up, we sent it to a bunch of newspapers. The story’s out there now.” Nancy shakes her head, laughing slightly. “He really likes his vodka.”

“Oh, so that’s where you guys were. Important, evidence gathering. No time for, uh . . . ”

Nancy frowns.

“Spit it out, Steve.”

“I was just,” Steve says, shrugging, “making sure . . . it’s just, Tommy was saying . . . and you guys were  _gone_ ,  _overnight_ , and I mean, we  _were_  broken up, it’s just, it had  _only_  been a  _day_.”

Jonathan wonders if Eleven could open up the Gate, just for a second, so he could escape into it.

“Are you seriously asking if we hooked up?” Nancy asks, her eyebrows reaching for the sky.

“I’m—” Steve puts his hands up in his defense. “I just wanted to—”

“Steve.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, his tone compromising.

Jonathan holds back a sigh of relief.

“But, like, just hand stuff, right?”

Jonathan slams the fridge door shut. “I’m gonna go check on Will,” he announces to no one in particular.

He walks away.


	2. flip it and reverse it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, someone asked for [the corollary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623048/chapters/32528223) and who am I to refuse.

She’s actually hanging out with Ally, for the first time in weeks, when the phone rings. **  
**

“Hey, Nance, so . . . I’m gonna need you to pick us up.”

“Steve, I told you it was a bad idea.”

Nancy doesn’t know why Steve is so determined, in his final weeks of high school, to make Jonathan popular by taking him to every single party he can, “Because as soon as I leave you guys are just going to sit at home every weekend and study, like  _losers_.”

“Actually, turns out—Jonathan, stop, no, I swear to god, stop trying to take the phone—”

She can hear him in the background, saying what sounds like her name. Repeatedly.

“Jonathan, sit over there. Do not move.”

Nancy sighs, impatient. “Steve.”

“Oh hey, hey Nance. Anyway, turns out Byers here is  _incredibly_ , like,  _surprisingly_  good at keg stands, Hargrove was  _not_  happy, anyway, I  _had_  to join in on the celebration and I know I said I’d drive us home but, uh, that’s not gonna happen. So . . . can you come get us?”

“If that’s Sarah’s party they’re at,” Ally jumps in, “I wouldn’t mind putting in an appearance.”

Nancy gives her a pointed look, covering the phone with her hand. “You’re my excuse  _not_  to go, remember?”

Ally shrugs. “The movie’s over anyway, I was about to leave.”

Nancy shakes her head. “Okay, yeah. They might kill themselves if I don’t.” She uncovers the phone. “Steve. Steve.  _Steve_.”

It takes more than a few tries to get his attention, but eventually Nancy confirms that she’s coming to pick them up and that they  _owe her_.

“Great, thanks Nance, I’m just gonna—Jonathan, no. Stop, she’s coming. I’ll see you in a—Jonathan,  _no_ —okay see you in a bit.”

Steve and Jonathan are in the kitchen when Nancy enters, Ally having been waylaid on their way in by Aaron Michaels, which Nancy suspects had more to do with Ally’s sudden interest in the party than she’d let on.

Jonathan’s face brightens when he sees her, and before she knows it, she’s staggering under his weight as he wraps his arms around her.

“Nance!”

“What did you  _do_  to him,” Nance asks Steve over his shoulder.

Steve shrugs in response.

Jonathan beams at her as she ducks out from under him. “This is a good party,” he announces. “And now you’re here.”

“I  _am_ ,” Nancy says, eyeing him sideways. “I’m here to take you home now.”

“You’re  _here_ ,” Jonathan repeats, and kisses her. It’s a little messy, and he tastes like beer, but his enthusiasm is undeniable, and his good mood is infectious. Nancy can’t help but smile.

“Come on,” she says, pushing him gently toward the door. “Let’s get you two out of here.”

It takes a little cajoling, and their exit is derailed more than once due to Jonathan being pulled into various drunk conversations, which, though more likely than sober conversations, force Nancy to admit that Steve’s plan may have been more successful than she’d realized.

She eventually gets them back to Jonathan’s house, depositing a dead-to-the-world Steve into an absent Will’s bed, steering Jonathan into the house as he stumbles in front of her.

“You’re . . . so great, Nancy,” he says, turning his head back to her and tripping into the couch.

“I know I am,” Nancy says patiently, pulling him back.

Jonathan twists in her arms so that he’s facing her, placing his hands more gently than she would have expected on her face.

“Nancy.”

“Yes?”

“I love you,” he says, deadly serious, like he hasn’t told her a million times before.

Nancy manages to restrain the laugh bubbling up, and tells him, with the same level of gravitas, “I love you too. Now you need to go to sleep.”

“No,” he protests feebly, but submits to her pushing him toward his room, trusting him to take the last few steps on his own, detouring to the kitchen to get him a glass of water.

He’s flopped onto his bed when she pushes the door open, but he rolls over at the sound, his face brightening again.

“You’re still here,” he says with surprise. Nancy can’t help but smile down at him fondly.

“I am.”

“You know what you are?” Jonathan asks, sitting up, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“So great?” Nancy guesses.

“You’re . . . ” Jonathan trails off, for so long that Nancy looks down to check if he’s fallen asleep against her, but instead she finds him with a look of intense concentration on his face.

In a burst of movement, he stands, almost pushing her off-balance, moving with purpose across the room, more nimble than she would have expected based on the amount of alcohol he’d drunk. He rummages in a drawer as Nancy regards him, confused.

“I’m . . . in a drawer?”

Jonathan ignores her. He eventually finds what he’s looking for, holding it aloft as he turns to her with pride.

A cassette tape.

Nancy frowns.

Jonathan beams.

“Okay,” Nancy says, deadpan. “You’re going to have to explain this one to me.”

Jonathan holds up a finger— _wait_ —and puts the tape in the deck. He fast-forwards, with single minded intensity. When he hits play, a song Nancy doesn’t recognize comes out of the speakers, something soft and dreamy, with jangly guitar and low crooning.

Jonathan beams at her again.

“That.”

Nancy waits, but he doesn’t go on. She blinks at him.

Jonathan’s face drops. “You didn’t? You didn’t hear that?” He shakes his head. “I just—let me play it again.”

He does. Nancy purses her lips.

“You gotta . . . just, okay, one more time.”

It takes three more rewinds, before he looks up at her with hope in his eyes, his ear pressed against the speaker. “You hear it, right?”

Nancy wants to put him out of his misery, but she can’t lie, not about something so clearly important to him, so she smiles at him apologetically. “It’s a really good song?”

“It’s  _you_ , Nancy, it’s . . . everything.” He sounds so fervent, Nancy drops to her knees next to him, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“I know,” she says soothingly.

Jonathan snakes an arm around her, tucking her into his side, and then places his other around the speaker.

“My two favorite things,” he mumbles.

Nancy lets him hold onto her for four more repetitions of what appears to be the same three seconds, before disentangling herself from him. “C’mon,” she says, pulling on his hand. “Time to sleep.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “No, I just—you just gotta—one more time, it’s so . . . ”

“Okay,” Nancy sighs. She bends down, kissing him on the cheek. “I’m getting into bed. You can join me if you want.”

“No, Nance, you have to—” Jonathan says, distracted. “Just . . . one more time.”

Somewhere around the fortieth time, Nancy falls asleep.

 

 

She wakes to the sound of moaning coming from somewhere below her.

“Why am I on the floor?” Jonathan asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Nancy rolls over, looking over the side of the bed, where Jonathan is sprawled, one leg hooked around the speaker. His hair is a mess, and she couldn’t love him more.

She tucks an elbow under her head, laughing. “You really wanted me to hear some part of a song, so you were playing it until I  _got it_ , or something, you said it was . . . me. I uh, gave up and went to bed after a while.”

“A song?” Jonathan tries, fails to sit up, and settles for twisting around so he can meet her eyes. “Which one?”

Nancy shrugs. “No idea. It’s on the tape in the deck though.”

Jonathan lifts his head, and groans. “I must have let it play, it’s at the end.”

“Sorry. At least you know the band?” Nancy twists her lips, raising an eyebrow.

Jonathan groans, again, looking bereft. “It’s a mixtape.”

Nancy can’t help but laugh. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, off his look of disappointment. “Now are you going to get off the floor, or what?”

“Maybe if I play it again . . . ” he says, pulling himself up and collapsing on top of her.

“Don’t you dare,” Nancy warns, pushing him to the side and throwing a leg around him.

Jonathan sighs, nuzzling his face into her hair. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually. If it’s about you, it won’t be too hard.”

Ten years later, he still hasn’t.


	3. young adult friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stoprobbers: how great would it be to have a post st2 fic in which nancy finds out his gpa is actually better than hers

The goal isn’t valedictorian.

Well, it is, but only in an oblique kind of way.

The goal is to beat Bret.

They’ve been rivals since the second grade, trading places year after year, Nancy top of the class in fourth grade, Bret in fifth, over and over.

She knows it doesn’t  _really_  matter this year, senior year is the one that counts. And she’s done everything she can, A’s in every class, even if one or two is a minus. (She blames last month, and the test she’d skipped for the lab, which seemed more important at the time. She’d made it up, but she knows she’d have done better if she’d had the weekend to study instead of fighting monsters.)

Beating Bret is the goal.

She never saw Jonathan coming.

 

 

 

The object of her undoing isn’t what she’d expected. Not a monster, or a shadowy figure from the lab lurking in the shadows, but instead, a report card.

The piece of paper is just sitting there, like a snake in the grass, waiting to pounce on Nancy when she least expects it, when she isn’t even  _studying_. Winter break is supposed to be a time for relaxing. Not for ambushes.

She wasn’t even _looking_  for it.

But there it is, on the kitchen counter, fall semester 1984.

Jonathan Byers.

4.17.

“What the fuck,” Nancy hears herself say aloud, as she feels her soul threatening to leave her body.

She picks the paper up with numb fingers, the three numbers staring her in the face, mocking her with their impressiveness. Four. Point. One. Seven.

Better than Bret’s 4.04.

And her 4.12.

“What the fuck,” she says again, unable to summon any other words, her SAT vocabulary abandoning her in the face of this outrage.

She pores over the digits, just in case they’ve been altered in any way—why would he?—but their validity is confirmed with one sweep of her index finger. No alterations, just pure betrayal.

She hears someone come up behind her.

“Oh hi, sweetie,” Joyce greets her, laying a hand briefly on Nancy’s shoulder. “What’s that you have there—oh good, it came, I know he was worried about Physics. Have you gotten yours yet?”

Nancy forces a nod and a pleasant smile, making herself stand and listen to Jonathan’s mother tell her about how she’s sure Nancy had  _nothing_  to worry about, she’s _such a smart girl_ , and all the while all Nancy can think is  _four point one seven_.

 

 

 

“What the fuck,” she says for a third time, having finally escaped into Jonathan’s room, where he’s sprawled sideways across the bed, reading a book, which probably  _isn’t even for class_.

“That took a while, did you find the chips? Mom said she got some,” he asks, not looking at her, before her words register and he glances up in confusion. “Huh?”

Nancy holds up the report card.

“Did you not get yours yet?” he asks, oblivious to the havoc he has wreaked upon her psyche.

“Is this real?”

“Yes,” he says warily at her tone, turning it almost into a question.

“That’s your real GPA,” she states.

“Yeah, why?” Jonathan sits up, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Nancy, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

Nancy swallows, trying to get the words out, failing on her first attempt. “ . . . It’s really high.”

Jonathan lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, I thought something had happened,” he says, and Nancy blinks at him. He still has no idea. Something  _has_  happened. “Yeah, I didn’t think I was going to be able to pull off Physics but it looks like it worked out.”

Nancy wets her lips. “It’s higher than mine,” she croaks.

He makes a face. “No it’s not.”

She nods. “It is. It’s higher than mine, it’s higher than Bret’s, Jonathan, what, how? You’re . . . you’re number one, you know that right?” The words spilling out of her.

“That’s . . . not true, what’s your GPA?” His head tilting in thought.

Nancy takes a breath, and the words seem so inadequate in the face of his numbers. “Four point one two.”

He frowns in confusion, then, in the  _ultimate_  act of betrayal, laughs. “Yeah. That’s lower, I can’t belie—” he begins to say, smiling to himself, pride in his eyes, before he stops, seeing her face. “Oh. Yeah, that’s lower,” he repeats, gravely.

“Is it?” Nancy asks, hearing the edge of hysteria in her voice, unable to overcome it. “You better confirm that, since you’re clearly  _so much better at math than me_.”

Jonathan looks at her sideways. “Wait, are you  _mad_?”

“Why is it so high? How? Where did you—when did you?”

“I got good grades,” he says simply, like he’s explaining it to a child, and Nancy fumes.

“Well . . . we need to fix this,” she says, pacing, thinking out loud. “What if—”

He looks at her, disbelieving. “What do you mean,  _we_? I’m . . . pretty happy with my GPA, thanks.”

Nancy stops pacing, her mouth dropping open in shock.

“If you want to get yours higher, maybe you should take more AP classes. They’re weighted, you know.”

She can feel the rage coursing through her. She splutters for a second, before finally gritting out, “I  _know_ they’re  _weighted_.”

“Okay then, you’ve got a plan,” he says, gesturing to the bed in front of him. “Are you going to sit down or are you just going to pace for the rest of the afternoon?”

Nancy sits.

And plans.

 

 

 

The plan is a simple one.

Five hundreths of a point. It’s nothing. Jonathan gets a few B’s and she’s back on top.

She puts it into action the second week of the semester.

“Do you want to study for Mr. Brown’s test tonight?” she asks in the car on the way home, pleased with how normal she sounds. If only there was a class in subterfuge. Her GPA would be sky high.

“Sure,” he agrees, unconcerned.

Nancy locks her door behind her.

They settle into their usual places on the floor, Jonathan leaning against her window seat, Nancy’s back against her bed.

The first step happens five minutes in, adjusting herself so that her feet end up leaning against him, resting gently on his thigh.

He doesn’t seem to notice.

Perfect.

Steps two and three proceed as according to plan, readjustments, brushing her hair to one side, exposing her neck, preceded by what seems to be an unconscious movement of her foot to ensure his glancing up at her, even as she appears to be studying diligently.

Step four.

She waits ten minutes, then stretches. The sweater she’s wearing had shrunk in the wash ages ago, but fits into today’s purposes perfectly, even as it doesn’t quite fit her.

As expected, Jonathan’s eyes follow the sweater.

Nancy shakes her head, as if to clear it, and pretends to read.

Jonathan puts his notes to the side.

“Hey,” he says, and she manages to restrain her grin. She looks up at him, blinking, like she’s caught off guard.

“Study break?” he suggests with a raised eyebrow.

“Already?” she asks innocently, but she’s already lifting herself up onto her bed, pulling him on top of her.

“A quick break. It’s just,” he says, between kisses, “that’s my favorite sweater. I haven’t seen you wear it in a while. It looks good.”

Nancy hums in agreement, pulling the aforementioned sweater over her head, and the look on his face almost makes her feel bad about her sabotage. Almost.

“And you know,” she says, as his mouth finds her neck, “this test isn’t _that_ important anyway, we don’t have to be that quick.”

He stops moving.

“Jonathan?” she asks, hoping she hasn’t blown it.

He pushes himself up, holding himself above her on outstretched arms. “Not  _that_ important?”

She blinks up at him, trying to seem harmless. “I mean, it’s just that it’s so early in the semester . . . ”

He’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before. “Nancy Wheeler. You already studied for this, didn’t you.”

She tries to appear guileless for a few more seconds, but the expression on his face makes it clear he’s figured out her plan. She rolls her eyes, drops the act, reaches for her sweater. “Fine.”

He sits back, his mouth open in outrage. “I cannot  _believe_  you tried to use my favorite sweater against me—”

“Yeah well, it almost worked, didn’t it?”

Jonathan narrows his eyes at her, considering, and then says, shrugging, “Well, I wouldn’t say _almost_.”

Nancy frowns at him.

He pulls her sweater from her hands, dropping it over the side of the bed, lowering himself back on top of her. “It  _is_  early in the semester.”

Nancy laughs, even as he leans down to kiss her again.

Mission accomplished.


	4. we were the quiet sunrise leavers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, I rewatched S2 this week and realized that two certain someones disappear at one point.

The house is just as they left it—paper trails climbing the walls, traversing the floor.

Joyce disappears into her room almost immediately, trailing one hand along Will’s forehead before inhaling sharply and rushing away.

Nancy can hear Hopper’s truck pulling in, hear the kids piling out, but she stays where she’s needed.

She isn’t conscious of the reason she reaches out, while Jonathan murmurs apologies to Will that only she can hear, but she finds herself laying her hand gently on his shoulder, to lend him strength, perhaps, or just to let him know that she’s there.

He rises up, looking lost, and Nancy pulls him away from everyone, everything.

They are all mourning, in their own ways.

She’s aware that his brother is lying on the couch with _something_ inside him, that her own brother is somewhere else in the house, that her ex-boyfriend-of-uncertain-standing is standing just off to the side (their eyes meeting briefly, Steve’s flicking away), but these facts remain on the periphery as they walk to his room, Nancy shutting the door quietly behind her. 

She can hear his breathing—shuddering, soft.

They stand for a moment just inside the door, her hand held loosely in his, as Nancy sees the emotions on her face mirrored on his—terror, anguish, the realization that everything they did, everything they’ve done, may have been for nothing—with the added guilt she knows he feels.

His face is blank as she leads him over to the bed, pulling gently at him, steadying him as he half-collapses, looking up at her, his gaze empty. She wants to join him, to sit herself, to curl herself around him and shut out the world, the brief joy she’d felt only hours ago cut by the sharp edge of loss, the world crashing in, but she knows they have to keep going.

She has to make sure they keep going.

Jonathan is still staring up at her, and she knows what he’s going to say before he says it. She pulls him against her, bracketing herself in between his knees, holding him tight, so that when the words come, he says them almost into her side, thrumming through her.

“I should have been here for him, I should have . . . ”

“No,” Nancy says, softly, pulling back so she can look him in the eyes. There’s a lost look in them, and she crouches down, bringing her face close to his. “Hey, no. You couldn’t have known, you—”

“I _knew_ , I knew _something_ was going on.” He shakes his head, looking up. He sounds almost angry, but Nancy knows that’s not it. 

It’s fear.

She draws him back, leaning her forehead against his. She breathes, in and out, before leaning back. “You couldn’t have known, not _this_.”

“I left them a _note_ and they were doing god-knows-what to the house _again_ , and Will was . . . ” He exhales, slow. “I wasn’t here, and they needed me—”

She cuts him off. “ _I_ needed you.”

The words take a second to reach him, but she can see the moment they do. He blinks, almost startled, then asks, “What?” As if he still doesn’t understand, what they did, how much it meant that he was _there_ , with her.

“I couldn’t . . . ” Her voice falters, and she tries again. “I couldn’t have done any of what we did without you, _we_ did it, _together_. You didn’t know, you couldn’t have known. I needed you, and you were there, and you’re here now. _We’re_ here now.”

Jonathan shakes his head, once, a quick jerk. “Yeah, but—”

She stops him with a kiss, pressing her lips firmly to his, blazing, determined, even as the hands she places on his chest are gentle. Pouring everything that she’s trying to tell him into it. It takes him a moment, but as his hands tangle his way into her hair, she thinks he understands.

Here, in this room, with the door closed, even as monsters threaten, she feels like the world can’t touch them. This is what she thought they’d be doing now, moments stolen in his room, away from their brothers, their families, before they had to face the world, even one they’d changed. But instead, one brother is unconscious and the other has been traipsing through the woods with her ex-boyfriend, hunting, or being hunted, and Nancy knows she can’t escape, not like she wants to.

There are still things left unfinished.

When she pulls back, the uncertainty in his eyes is gone. She opens her mouth to speak, but before any words come out, a hammering on the door stops her.

“Nancy! We figured it out! Jonathan! Get out here!” Mike’s voice is muffled through the door, and she can hear it as he echoes down the hallway, calling for Hopper.

She really is going to _kill_ Mike, if the monsters don’t kill them first.

Jonathan stands, quickly, pulling her with him, and she can feel the urgency rising, their brief interlude over before it had a chance to even begin, and as he and as he begins to step away, she holds him in place.

“We’re going to figure this out, we’re going to stop whatever’s happening. Just like last time. We’re going to finish what we started,” she tells him. The words echoing through their past.

He’s looking at her like he wants to believe her, and as she follows him toward the door, she grips his hand tighter, stopping him once more.

She kisses him again, one last time, but she makes it count.

“Let’s finish it,” he says, looking back at her, and she can feel something surging within her. She thinks it might be hope.

He opens the door.


	5. snow falling slow to the sound of the master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to stoprobbers' delight of a guy, [_see the luck i’ve had_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16428167), because let’s face it, the world needs more of these two specific kids doing their thing.

It doesn’t end with Samantha.

He can count on one hand the number of parties he’d been invited to during his entire high school career before Nancy, but now, more Saturday evenings than not, Jonathan finds himself standing amongst his peers, nursing a Solo cup of whiskey, Nancy tucked into his side. And he doesn’t mind, especially not the last part, even as Nancy wrinkles her nose at his taste in alcohol, declaring him _an old man_ as she goes to refill her drink, leaving him standing alone, calling after her, “You don’t need a refill if you have the same drink all night!”

It’s what happens after she leaves him that he minds.

And it’s not like he’s complaining, he’s not moaning to Steve about the fact that girls seem _drawn_ to him the second they see him standing alone.

What he minds is _Nancy_.

And how he can always see her, standing just within earshot but always behind a clump of people, smirking at his desperate _save me_ looks and his fumbling attempts to make conversation with a girl he’s only ever going to disappoint in the end.

“How about next time you go to get a drink you just _come right back after_?” he asks, exasperated, after a girl from Southern High tires of his one-word answers after thirty minutes, which, in the grand scheme of things, is not the longest one of these conversations he’s had to muddle through. (The forty-five minute marathon of a few weeks ago is the record-holder, Linda whatever-her-last-name-was completely unfazed by his sighs and _I wonder where my girlfriend could be_ s, Nancy’s laughter still ringing through his ears.)

Nancy blinks up at him, her wide eyes projecting an innocence he doesn’t believe for a second. “I didn’t want to interrupt, you looked like you were having a good time.”

He gives her a look. “You _know_ that’s not true.”

She scrunches her nose up as she grins wickedly, but as she lifts her face to kiss him, her lips red with punch, he forgets why he was annoyed in the first place.

The phenomenon fades as junior year passes into senior, and Hawkins and its surrounding areas get used to the fact that he and Nancy are a package deal, but rears its ugly head with a vengeance once they get to college and he’s confronted with an entire city of people that they’ve never met before.

He’s also gotten better at navigating the inevitable, the girls (and occasional guy) who sidle up, spotting him in the moments where he or Nancy have stepped away for a drink, or out onto the fire escape, or once, in the bathroom line. (It never seems to happen when he’s at a party on his own. He’s not sure what that means.) These days it’s a little less one-sided, finding the ability to engage somewhere within him, even as his eyes flick to Nancy and her knowing, mischievous looks over his conversation partner’s shoulder, his eyes rolling in return.

He’s even made a friend, or two, in the end.

He’s hoping for that outcome on a night that finds them in a fifth floor walkup all the way west, there for a friend of Nancy’s whose parents have abandoned the city for upstate. Jonathan finds himself in the kitchen, having been herded there by the flow of the party, the music thumping underneath the cloud of smoke that lightens briefly every time the door opens, talking to a girl who he’d accidentally bumped into as he stepped out of the way of the fridge door opening, Nancy having been pulled away by the host for some unknown reason.

It starts out awkward as always, names and identifying information given out in stuttering eye-avoidance (Pamela, Barnard first-year, originally from Connecticut), but after a while, Jonathan finds that he hasn’t looked for Nancy once, that Pamela is actually easy to talk to, could be someone he wouldn’t mind continuing to talk to. Her taste in music is similar enough to his to relate, her taste in everything else even more so.

She’s telling him about the David Hanson exhibit he’s been trying to get to for weeks now, emphasizing her “You _have_ to go,” with an outstretched palm on his chest, when he feels an arm twine around, a hand slipping into his.

He tilts his head slightly toward Nancy, an introduction on the tip of his tongue, when she tugs at his arm, pulling him down, and kisses him.

Forcefully.

No, not forcefully.

 _Possessively_.

The realization hits like a bolt of lightning, and even as he finds himself being thoroughly kissed, his eyebrows raise and Jonathan finds himself starting to smile uncontrollably, an echo of Nancy’s grins through the years. 

“Hi,” he says, simply, knowingly, once she’s released him, tamping the smile down, giving her a pointed look. Nancy’s eyes narrow slightly at his suppressed amusement, and she turns to Pamela, somehow wrapping herself even tighter around his arm.

“And you are?”

(Jonathan thinks he understands now, the joy Nancy has always found in his discomfort, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this giddy.)

Pamela is looking at them warily, and Jonathan sighs internally, bidding goodbye to the friendship he knows now will never exist, as she grimaces, “Leaving,” and edges away.

Nancy slides into the space she’d vacated, and Jonathan turns his gaze on her, looking at her from underneath hooded eyelids.

“What?” she says, like she doesn’t know.

He keeps staring, accusatory, unblinking.

Nancy shrugs. “She seemed nice.”

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, giving up. Lets the grin he’s been fighting surface. “You were _jealous_ ,” he says, smug, nudging her closer to the wall, shielding them even as he knows everyone else at the party isn’t paying them any mind.

She scoffs, “I was _not_ ,” even as she readjusts her grip on his hand, holding onto him, firm.

“The last time you did that was _Samantha_ ,” he reminds her. “And that was _years_ ago.”

She glares at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh huh. Why couldn’t you do that any of the _other_ times I was flailing around, making a fool of myself?” He wraps his free arm around her, pulling her flush against him.

Nancy looks up at him, her eyes wide as always, but with none of the innocence she always tries to project in this moment. Instead he sees a rueful acceptance, and she shrugs as she says, “I guess you finally got good at flirting.”

“Oh, so you _do_ remember.”

Her lips purse as her own smile grows. “Yeah well, took you long enough.”

“So you’re saying I’m finally good enough at it to flirt with you?” 

“I guess so,” she says, eyebrows raised.

He nudges his face closer to hers, the giddy feeling only growing stronger. “So how am I doing?”

She laughs, clear and bright, and before she kisses him, says, “You’ll do.”


	6. every time i see you falling, i get down on my knees and pray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is nothing but pure crack, but it’s also the first thing that came to mind upon seeing that per a certain book, Nancy Wheeler is a member of the Hawkins Presbyterian Youth Fellowship. I apologize in advance.

She really _had_ gone, in the beginning.

But youth group was never really the same without Barb, and every time Nancy had planned to go, after, something had always come up; homework, Steve, monsters. Eventually she’d left it behind, just like so many things.

The only thing is, her mother didn’t know that.

Her mother believes, still, that every Thursday from 5-8, Nancy Wheeler is down at Hawkins Presbyterian, doing some good in the world. 

Mike knows, bought off with the promise of a ride to school in the mornings once it’s too cold to ride his bike instead of enduring the bus, which, in the grand scheme of things, is not too great a price to pay.

She’s not sure if her father _ever_ knows where she is.

She looks forward to it all week, the chunk of time with no responsibilities, no obligations. Which isn’t to say she isn’t responsible, she’s done more than a few hours of studying while she’s supposed to be down at the church. But for three hours (plus travel time) weekly, Nancy Wheeler is gloriously, unreservedly free to do whatever she pleases.

Which, these days, is Jonathan.

 

 

 

 

“Can you come straight home after school, Nancy?” her mother calls to her one morning from the kitchen, as she slides into her seat at the table, her father hidden behind a newspaper, Holly drinking her orange juice, Mike gnawing on a piece of toast. “I want to plan our college visits for this summer. Mike, you too.”

“What!”

“You’ll be applying yourself in a few years, and this way we won’t have to visit them again.”

“I have to go to the arcade after school,” Mike protests, “Max beat my score on—”

“Michael Wheeler, that is not a good excuse and you know it.”

“Oh, I can’t.” Nancy blinks, and smiles apologetically, glancing over at Mike, who’s fuming. “It’s Thursday, Mom.”

Karen sighs. “Right, of course. That _is_ more important. Well, this weekend then.”

“What’s Thursday?” Ted asks, uninterested.

“Youth group. You know that, Ted.”

Nancy keeps the smile on her face, pretends she’s the good daughter her parents believe her to be. 

Her father makes a noise of acknowledgement. “And what does one do at this youth group, anyway?” he asks, but Nancy can tell the question is rhetorical.

“Youth group?” Mike scoffs, eyes rolling, clearly still annoyed that her fake excuse carries more weight than his video game-based drama.

“They do good things in the community, Ted,” her mother supplies, standing once more to refill Holly’s orange juice.

“I thought it was when Nancy and Jonathan discuss God, repeatedly, in the backseat of his car,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Nancy chokes on her cereal. 

She throws a glare at Mike, followed by a swift kick to his shin, which he reciprocates.

“What was that, Mike? Did you say Jonathan joined too?” Karen calls, oblivious to the silent fight taking place at the kitchen table behind her back. 

_I will murder you_ , Nancy says with her eyes. _Agree with her right now._

“Drive me to the arcade and we’ve got a deal,” Mike hisses.

Her father reads on, unconcerned.

“Fine,” she hisses back.

Mike grins.

Karen turns around, an eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Mike says, managing to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Jonathan joined too.”

“Oh that’s wonderful! It’ll look great on his college applications.”

“Oh yeah,” he continues, and this time some sarcasm creeps in as he starts to grin once more. “He’s really into it. _Very_ passionate.”

Nancy turns her glare back on him, which she cuts short as her mother comes back to the table. 

“You must be happy, Nancy, that you two have something more to do together.”

“Mm-hmm,” Nancy agrees, blinking, and then turns her gaze back to her bowl. 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jonathan!” Karen exclaims as they walk through the foyer later that evening. “I didn’t know you were joining us. How was youth group?”

“I’m not,” he says, frowning slightly, as Nancy’s stomach drops. She’d completely forgotten to mention it to him during their hours parked in the woods. “I’m just getting a book I left here—big essay this weekend. And um,” he glances over to Nancy, as she stares at him, eyes wide, willing him to read her mind. “It was . . . ”

Nancy cuts in. “It was fine. We _both_ ,” she stresses, with a significant glance, “find it _very_ fulfilling, doing these things _together_.”

Karen smiles.

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” he says, and Nancy can see the moment it clicks. “Right. Yes. We had . . . fun.” His tone goes up at the end of the sentence, almost turning it into a question, but her mother doesn’t seem to notice.

“That’s wonderful. Are you sure you won’t stay for dinner?”

“Oh, no,” he protests, “I should really get . . . ”

“Nonsense,” Karen says, talking over him, ushering him into the dining room. “I insist, I made far too much.”

Grimacing over his shoulder, he follows her, mouthing, _Youth group_? as Nancy gives him an apologetic smile. 

Nancy thinks they’re in the clear, her mother having turned her attention to her younger siblings, asking after Mike’s afternoon as she spoons carrots onto Holly’s plate, until she turns back to Jonathan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did you want to say grace?”

The look on his face is something that, if Nancy wasn’t complicit in its cause, she would remember with glee until the end of time. As it is, she feels the blood drain from her face, even as she finds herself suppressing an irresistible urge to laugh.

“Um,” he says, eyebrows raised, blinking.

Karen goes on, “Mike was just saying this morning, how passionate you were about it, I thought maybe . . . ”

Nancy chances a look at her brother, whose urge to laugh seems to be less repressed than hers. 

She kicks him again. Mike sobers instantly.

Her gaze flicks back to find Jonathan staring at her, accusatory, as the silence drags on. She plasters a pleasant look on her face, turns to her mother.

“Mom, he . . . he’s only been going for a few weeks, and that’s not really the _point_. We’re just trying to help out the community— ”

“Okay, okay,” Karen says, putting her hands up. “I just . . . I was just thinking . . . ”

Jonathan shoots once last dagger at Nancy, before turning back himself. “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler,” he says, and his tone of ingratiation almost causes Nancy’s composure to break, a single giggle escaping before she rearranges her face into something resembling benign interest. “Maybe next time.”

 

 

 

When they’ve finally escaped to her room, he shuts the door with a snap, folding his arms, leaning against the wall. 

Nancy gives him a hopeful smile.

He shakes his head at her.

Her smile turns apologetic. “Sorry?”

“ _What_ was _that_ ,” he asks, eyebrow raised. “Youth group? I thought you stopped going?”

She takes a step toward him, pulling his hands into hers, pulling him close, wrapping his arms around her, tilting her head up to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He looks down at her, his expression skeptical at her actions.

“I . . . did? But I didn’t tell my mother?”

Jonathan frowns at her, his gaze still wary.

“So I could hang out with you! Why else did you think we had a standing Thursday date?”

She watches as the information sinks in, watches the smile spread across his face, as the arms wrapped around her tighten of their own volition. “ _Oh_.”

“And then Mike,” Nancy says with a snort, finally allowing the laughter she’s been pushing down all night to the surface, “at breakfast this morning, said it was when—” She tries to get the words out, fails.

“What,” he asks, wary again.

Nancy raises her eyes heavenward. “He said . . . it was when we discussed God, _repeatedly_ , in the backseat of your car.”

He blinks, and Nancy thinks this may be the first time in a long while she’s seen him actually speechless. “He _what_?”

“I _know_ ,” she says, her mouth open in remembered astonishment, her eyes meeting his as she continues, “I just about murdered him at the kitchen table, but _luckily_ she only heard your name, so um, looks like you’re going to be joining me at youth group for the foreseeable future.”

His expression turns considering as he leans back against the wall, pulling her with him. “I mean,” he says, sliding down so he’s on her level, “I wouldn’t mind having another _theological_ discussion.”

Nancy scrunches her nose up at him.

“Oh _God_ ,” he says with a grin, teasing, and she covers his mouth with her hand before he can get any more words out.

“Shut _up_!” she hisses, cocking her head toward the door to try and detect any of her family members on the landing.

“Oh _Jesus_ ,” he goes on, muffled, his eyes mischievous.

She gives him a withering look. “Keep this up and there won’t be any _discussing_ for a week _, heathen_.”

That shuts him up.

“Now,” she says, extricating herself from his embrace, “take your book and get out of here before you blaspheme any more.”

Jonathan sighs, off her raised eyebrow, shaking his head, but takes his book from where it rests on her dresser. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

“Yes,” she says with a grin, taking a step toward him, tilting her face up toward his. “But, I wouldn’t say no to a . . . _conversation_ tomorrow.”

His smile grows to match hers, and as he leans down to kiss her, says, “Thank god for that.”


	7. it's okay to have scars; they will make you who you are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [stoprobbers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers), on her birthday.

It happens almost too quickly.

Everything fades into the background—Will, the sound of the television, muffled, around the corner—and his world narrows to a single point.

Nancy.

He’s holding the present— _not really a present_ —awkwardly in his hands, when she steps toward him, steadying herself with a gently placed hand and leaning in close.

He doesn’t see it coming.

He’s not sure of what he’s doing, even as he does it. It happens quickly.

He turns his head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It all happens so fast.

Maybe because she’d been in her hiding place on the stairs for so long, but from when she calls his name to when she finds herself standing in front of him, it all seems to happen in an instant.

Maybe because they haven’t spoken, not really, since everything, Jonathan fading away from her life like he’d never been there. Nancy survives off of brief glimpses into his life mentioned, off-hand, by Mike. Snatches of conversations in the hallway, which almost always end with him looking to the side, avoiding her gaze.

She wants to grab onto him, hold onto him tight, but he always slips away.

Eventually she stops trying.

But here, now, with him finally standing in front of her, she finds she can’t let him go, even if it’s just for this brief moment.

She doesn’t know why she does it, but it feels right. 

She leans in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He can feel her eyelids fluttering in surprise against his cheek as his own do the same. 

Time seems to slow as he realizes that they are, if one goes by the definition of the word, kissing, her lips pressed against his, a collision he hadn’t expected as he’d glanced away from her, like he has been for weeks now, their days of locked gazes evaporating with no enemy to fight.

He holds himself very still, his eyes meeting Nancy’s as she breathes in softly in surprise. He braces himself, waiting for her to pull back, pulling words of apology together in his mind.

Instead, she closes her eyes, slowly, and softly tightens her fingers where they rest on his jacket.

Time slows even more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was as much as she could let herself do. A swift kiss on the cheek, as far as she’d let herself go with Steve sitting in other room, waiting for her even as she hadn’t waited for him. (Her own waiting was for someone else.)

Fate, it seems, has other plans.

It still comes as a surprise, even as she sees his head begin to jerk to the side, just as he’s done countless times before, when she finds herself with her lips pressed against his.

She blinks, finding herself looking into his eyes for the first time in what feels like ages, _really_ looking at him, with nothing in between them. Like the past month hasn’t happened, like they’re still sitting on the couch, hands wrapped, holding onto each other.

She’s come this far.

So she keeps going.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. The space of a breath, a heartbeat. Or hours. Days.

All he knows is that he’s kissing Nancy Wheeler.

Like he’d meant to, before.

It’s soft. Yearning, almost, even as he’s doing the thing he’s yearned for. One of his hands tangles in her hair, and he can feel it this time, as she breathes in, feels the way her lips turn up in a smile.

He doesn’t want it to end, but some far corner of his mind reminds him that Will’s behind them, that they’re standing in the foyer, that her entire family could come upon them like this, and he regretfully pulls away.

She purses her lips into a smile, hopeful. He does the same.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he says the first thing that comes to mind, even as he knows how inadequate the words may be after all this.

“Merry Christmas.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s nothing like she’d imagined. (She’d imagined it quite a bit.)

She’d thought that when it happened, it would be like how they came together in the beginning. In desperation, making it up as they went along.

Instead, it’s not like that at all. It’s deliberate. He pulls her to him slightly and she can’t help but grin with the _rightness_ of it all. Even when he steps back, she doesn’t mourn the loss of him. She knows that this isn’t the end. This isn’t the last kiss they’ll share.

He looks at her, the joy she’s feeling reflected in his eyes, and tells her, “Merry Christmas.”

She knows that’s not what he means, but there’s only so much they can say, here, standing in the middle of her house, Will watching unabashedly. 

_This is our beginning_ , she thinks, and then pushes the thought away immediately. They already had their beginning. This is how they go on.

He turns away, but even with all her conviction, she wants to make sure. Make sure for herself, but also for him. To make sure he knows. 

That everything has changed.

She tries to put every emotion she’s having into the single word. 

“Jonathan?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She calls his name, and he turns back.

There’s hope, and certainty, and a promise for the future in the way she says it. 

He holds his breath, hopes with all of his might, and ventures, “See you tomorrow?”

She grins, and it’s like a light is breaking across her face.

“See you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

As soon as the door closes, she rushes up the stairs, her feet almost slipping on the carpet, her heart still pounding, running to her room to look out the window, pulling the curtain to the side. Like she’s done every weekend since Will started coming to the house again.

She watches as he drives away, but unlike all the other times, she knows he’ll be back.

She flops back onto her bed. Touches her lips.

And smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

He can feel Will watching him. He turns his head to the side, raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Will says, innocently, a little too quickly, a shit-eating grin on his face. Jonathan glares at him. 

Will holds up the present. (Not really a present. Whatever it ends up being, he knows it will pale in comparison.) “Can I open it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He glances up, one last time, before he drives away. 

A curtain flutters.

He smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So,” Steve says to no one, the snoring form of Ted Wheeler his only audience. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”


	8. only only weeping glimmers in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said when you were crying

She hasn’t been able to stop crying, not since he pulled her from the tree, sobbing with relief, even as he steers her to her bed, sitting her down on the edge, pulling off his sweater and wrapping it around her. She knows that she’s still covered in residue from that  _place_ , from the tree, and that she’s probably getting it filthy, but she can’t find it in her to protest, warmth spreading from where his hand rests—gently, tentatively—on her back. **  
**

Her bedspread is probably ruined.

She breathes out, shuddering.

They hadn’t spoken as they made their way through the woods, back to her house, sneaking up the stairs, Jonathan’s presence steady at her back.

She wipes her eyes, tears still falling, staring at nothing.

It doesn’t do much.

“Where did you go?” he asks, eventually.

She turns her head to the side. Seeing the concern in his eyes as he watches her carefully. She shakes her head.

Shrugs.

He nods, more in acknowledgement than agreement.

“I need to take a shower.”

It’s the first thing she’s said since she screamed his name through the void.

He nods again.

She stands, abruptly. Walks quickly to the door. She pauses, halfway through shutting it behind her, even though she’s covered in ash, or blood, she doesn’t even know what, even though her mother could come up the stairs at any moment.

There’s something else she needs to say.

Her eyes meet his, and this time, no tears fall.

“Thank you.”


	9. climb up in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said with no space between us

She’s wrapped entirely around him, holding on tight even as Jonathan staggers back from the force of her flying leap.

“You’re lucky I caught you,” he murmurs in her ear.

Her only response is to loosen her grip just enough to lean back and then back in to kiss him firmly, his arms wrapping around her just as tight. Holding her up.

“I  _cannot believe_ you went through a gate,” Nancy mumbles against his lips. “ _Without me_.”

“You were busy,” he responds, grinning, adrenaline and relief and exhilaration coursing through his veins. “Plus, Will needed my help. I knew you’d find a way to get us back.”

“You’re lucky I heard you.”

“You heard  _me_ , last time,” he reminds her, trying to set her down, and failing, her hands twining their way into his hair, legs wrapping even tighter, even as she’s hindered by what she’s wearing.

“Why does this always happen to us?” she asks, even as he knows she doesn’t expect an answer.

He gives her a pointed look. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done this so close to the woods. Is anyone hurt?”

“Jane got blood on her dress, but that’s to be expected.” Nancy finally relinquishes her hold on him, drops down to the ground, smoothing her own dress out. “And Hop’s got a black eye. Your mom is  _pissed_.”

“And the monsters?”

She rolls her eyes. “We got them all, I think Mike wants to start a bonfire later? Although I’m pretty sure I saw Steve dragging one of them out to Dustin’s truck.”

He shakes his head. He glances behind him, at the remnants of the closed gate, Will standing beside it, a triumphant smile on his face. He gives Jonathan a thumbs up.

“Okay,” he breathes, looking at the crowds of people emerging from underneath chairs, from behind trees. He turns to Nancy. “Now, c’mon,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let’s finish getting married.”


	10. lonely left them there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

She’s pleasantly tipsy, reclined on a towel at the edge of the pool so she can trail her fingers, her toes in the water. Steve is doing somersaults, and the remnants of the splashes that hit her provide welcome, if temporary relief from the interminable heat, even after the sun has gone down.

Jonathan is floating, doing slow, lazy laps, round and round. He nudges her when he passes, threading his fingers through hers before he continues on his way.

She can’t remember the last time she felt this relaxed.

“Nance is totally out of it,” she hears Steve say, followed by a laugh from Jonathan.

“No I’m not,” she mumbles, but she can’t find the energy to say it loud enough for them to hear her. She looks over at them through half-closed eyes, Steve draped over the bottom half of the float, Jonathan’s legs hanging in the water. She lets her eyelids droop shut once more.

“How’s, um . . . how’re you guys doing, by the way?”

There’s a long pause, and Nancy can see in her mind’s eye the wary look that is Jonathan’s response, or lack thereof.

“Do you actually want to know?” he asks, eventually.

“Uh, sure,” Steve says, and Nancy can hear a splash, Steve pushing the water away from himself. She wonders what he’s pushing away. Maybe it’s his feelings.

“We’re . . . good,” Jonathan says, measured. “I mean—”

“What?”

“This is really weird.”

“I’m just  _curious_ , we never really talk about this stuff.”

Jonathan is deadpan. “There’s a reason for that.”

“We dated the same girl, it’s only weird if we let it get weird.”

“Trust me, it’s already weird.”

“Do you love her?” Steve asks, and there’s something restrained in his voice.

“Yes,” Jonathan says, immediately. Simply.

There’s a silence, not quite tense, but Steve breaks it before it goes anywhere. “And what about me?”

“I don’t love you,” he says with a laugh.

Steve joins in, briefly. “No, I mean—us, are we … good?”

Nancy chances a peek. The two boys are looking anywhere but at each other.

“I mean, we shouldn’t be,” Jonathan says, eventually. Slowly. “Even after . . . there was all that stuff—”

Steve tries to break in, but Jonathan keeps talking. “—and with Nance . . . but.” He exhales, and shrugs. “We fought monsters together.”

The delighted grin that breaks over Steve’s face is one for the ages. “We did.”

The silence returns, but it’s warm, this time. Companionable.

“So, here’s a question. Does Nance still do that thing where she—”

Jonathan cuts him off. “I’m not going to answer that—”

“—no, I’m just wondering if—”

There’s a small splash, and Nancy opens her eyes all the way to find Steve missing, Jonathan fully supine. Steve resurfaces, spluttering.

“Did you seriously shove me off the raft?”

Jonathan shrugs.

Steve narrows his eyes.

The wave he makes is large, sudden, and completely misses its target.

“What the  _fuck_ , Steve?” Nancy screeches, completely drenched. She jumps up, murder in her eyes.

“Oh shit,” Steve says, trying to swim away quickly as he can. “Run, Jonathan!”

“I think you can fight this one on your own,” Jonathan calls to him, and starts his slow circle around the pool once more.


	11. i'll take you out and up and light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things you said at the kitchen table

She’s sitting, curled up in a chair, legs pressed against the kitchen table, chin resting on her knees, smiling through her exhaustion. **  
**

There had been a mass exodus from the kitchen to the living room as the last of them had stumbled in, Hopper staggering through the door, supporting an even more shattered-looking Eleven. Nancy had stood, briefly, but stayed back, letting the boys clamber around her.

Jonathan finds her there.

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning against the wall. He looks how she feels.

She raises her eyebrows at him, too tired to say it back, the coffee he’d placed in front of her when she’d sat down long cold. (She’d been too keyed up to drink it before, lifting it to her lips only to set it down, waiting for the door to open, for the rest of their group to come back to the fold. The warmth of the mug unsettling after the heat of the cabin.)

He glances at the clump of people surrounding the couch, then steps deliberately over to her, avoiding one of the many pieces of paper that litter the floor.

“Will’s asleep,” he says, perching on the edge of the chair next to her, leaning in close, keeping his voice low. “I should probably take you home.”

Nancy tilts her head, pressing her lips together. She nods, but makes no effort to stand, content to stay where she is. With him.

She unwraps one of her arms from around her knees, pulls one of his hands into hers. She grips it tightly, feeling the calluses on his palm, his fingers. The faint edge of her scar pressing between them.

“Or I could stay,” she offers.

Jonathan starts shaking his head, even before she gets the words out. “No, you don’t have to . . . ” He trails off, leaving exactly what she doesn’t have to do unsaid.

She thinks about arguing with him, even as she realizes—what is there to do, really? The gate is closed, the monsters are dead. Will is alive, whole, completely himself. (For the most part, at least.) Mike is safe. They’re all safe, now.

Instead, she looks at him out of the corner of her eyes. “I don’t.  _Have_  to.”

He gives her a wry smile, hearing her intent. “You should go home,” he reiterates. “Get some sleep.”

He’s right, she knows this. It’s not like she’d gotten much the night before, a fact he’s very aware of. And she can feel the exhaustion, bone-deep within her. But the fear that the fragile peace they’ve achieved for themselves could disappear in her absence leaves her hesitant, even as she remembers the way he’d pressed himself into her side, clinging to her.

It’s this cautious balance between her fear and surety that prompts the next words out of her mouth, meant to reassure—although if the reassurance is for herself or him remains to be seen. “I’ll be there—here—tomorrow. I’ll come back. Or,” she checks her watch, “today, I guess. If my mom hasn’t killed me by then.”

He lets out a quick laugh, the absurdity of their situation underscored by the very real threat of her mother, the greatest threat she’s had to face since Eleven shut the gate. There’s a pause. “You don’t have to—” he repeats, but she stops him before he can finish the thought this time.

“Jonathan.”

She gives him a look.

He shakes his head again, but it’s not a rejection. A deflection. He looks down, at their joined hands. “No . . . it’s not. I’m not.” His eyes lift back up, his gaze clear. “Disappearing. I’m not. It’s—”

“I know,” she says, quickly, talking over him. She smiles, soft. “But I’ll still be here.”

When he tugs her closer to him, she almost expects it. What she doesn’t expect is the way he presses his lips to her hand, to her knuckles, a kiss Nancy feels racing down her spine, down to her toes, his fingers tracing the line of her scar.

When he looks up again, there’s a depth of emotion in his eyes Nancy knows is reflected in her own. She leans toward him, leans her forehead against his. Breathes in.

“We’ll both be here,” she says.


End file.
